


It's beginning to look a lot like...

by Morbidmuch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Grumpy Snape, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Mutual Pining, it's so fluffy I'm gonna die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27400969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbidmuch/pseuds/Morbidmuch
Summary: Severus has to make it through Christmas dinner at Hermione's house without blurting out his growing feelings for her. How hard can it be?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 42
Kudos: 212
Collections: Hearts and Cauldrons Discord Members, Hearts and Cauldrons Gift Exchange





	It's beginning to look a lot like...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [staypee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/staypee/gifts).



> A massive thanks to my beta turtle_wexler for listening to my whinging and wrangling this story into shape.

Severus has always hated Christmas.

When he was a child the holidays always put Tobias in a fouler mood than usual, which meant a lot of yelling and him hiding in his room. Staying at Hogwarts wasn't much better; waking up on Christmas morning and seeing his housemates' beds overflowing with presents while his was empty was a deeper level of humiliation than he was used to.

As Potions Master, his Christmases were spent supervising lascivious teenagers and dodging Trelawney with her sherry breath and wandering hands. Then Potter arrived, and his holidays were a much-needed break from having to see the imbecilic boy in his classroom. On the night of the Yule Ball during the Triwizard tournament, his forearm had burnt like fire, and he spent Christmas Day drunk off his arse cursing both the Dark Lord and Harry bloody Potter.

Severus spent his first Christmas after the Dark Lord's demise in St Mungo's recovering from nearly dying, in excruciating pain from the treatment that would – supposedly – save his life. It was his favourite Christmas in years.

The shrill voice of his least favourite co-workers pulls him from his thoughts.

“We're going abroad for the holidays,” she says with a voice that says she expects them to be impressed.

Severus quenches the urge to roll his eyes. He wishes he could spend his breaks anywhere but here, but the department only has one break room and he will under no circumstances take his tea in the canteen.

It's two weeks before Christmas, and the only thing his colleagues have been talking about for days is their plans for the holidays. It is rather tiresome. Also, he is not at all bitter no one's asked him about his plans. Not at all. Not that he has plans, mind you, but it's still nice to be included.

Among the chattering, he notices one other who is also silent in the conversation; Hermione Granger. The first time she walked into the department almost five years ago he nearly quit on the spot. He'd had quite enough of Potter's cohorts to last a lifetime, thank you very much. It turned out, though, that she was rather brilliant. A bond formed over Petri dishes and late nights, and while he wouldn't call her a friend – Severus doesn't have friends – she is the only one in the office he can stand for any longer period of time.

As though she knows he's thinking about her, she meets his eyes. Her lips curl, nose scrunching up as she gives him a look that clearly conveys she's as exasperated with their colleagues as he is. She is much more outgoing and friendly than he is, but she more often than not seeks out his company over that of their more talkative co-workers.

Once their break is over, he is the last one to leave the room. Hermione – yes, in his mind he calls her Hermione – is waiting by the open doorway.

“Do you have plans for the holidays?” she asks, matching his steps, though the top of her head barely reaches his chin.

“I do not,” he says, feeling strangely vulnerable admitting this. “Only catching up on my reading and meeting Minerva for tea. You?”

She shakes her head. “I plan on eating too much food and watching a lot of TV.”

They continue walking, footsteps clinking on the floor. At the end of the hallway is the door into the research lab, and automatically Severus pulls it open.

Hermione stops in the doorway, regarding him with those amber eyes. “You're welcome to have Christmas dinner at mine, if you want.” She shrugs. “Saves me from eating leftovers for a month. Think about it, okay?”

It's all Severus can think about for the rest of the day.

~~~

When Severus arrives in the sitting room at Spinner's End, he is tired. His days have become routine; get home from work, have dinner, read, go to bed. Sinking down on the sofa, he sighs. This wasn't what he thought his life would become after waking up in St Mungo's to the news that the Dark Lord had been vanquished and he was a free man. It's been – sweet Salazar – thirteen years since then, and he's only recently admitted to himself that he is lonely.

Severus scoffs. How pathetic is that? He scrubs a hand over his face. His friendship with Minerva never recovered – they have a tense cup of tea twice or so a year – and he can count on one hand the people he doesn't hate. Hermione is one of those people. He doesn't want to closely examine what he feels for her; it will only lead him to a place of aching somewhere below his ribs. It's been about six months since he realised just how lovely she is, with her errant curls and friendly smile. He will not ruin their tentative acquaintanceship with his delusions of romance. He is much too old for such faff.

Her invitation for Christmas dinner sounds doable, though. He can go and socialise for a few hours without letting it on how lovely he thinks she is. He _was_ a spy for nigh on twenty years, after all. Before he can change his mind, he summons a sheet of parchment and a quill from the desk in the corner of the room. Scribbling a quick note – and forcing himself to sign it Snape instead of Severus – he goes in search of his owl.

~~~

Severus spends the next two weeks in a silent panic.

Hermione keeps giving him these smiles he doesn't know how to interpret, so he decides to ignore them. It seems like the most logical option. The day before the holidays, she finds him by the washing up area right before the end of the day. She stands so close he can smell the orange blossoms on her skin.

“Here's my address,” she says, handing him a small piece of paper. “You can come by anytime after noon, and I think dinner will be ready around 3? Oh, and you don't have to bring anything. Just yourself.” She touches his arm – a fleeting, casual touch that he's seen her do countless other times on different co-workers – and smiles again. “I'm really glad you said yes.”

As he's changing his lab coat for his cloak, he pauses. He hasn't bought her a Christmas gift. She obviously doesn't expect him to – having said not to bring anything – but he can't show up empty-handed. He may be a misanthrope, but he's not stupid. Although, he would rather go another round with Nagini than venture into Muggle London two days before Christmas. Or even Diagon Alley; it's bound to be a madhouse this close to the holidays.

Once he's home he goes into the loft – which he converted into a potions lab years ago – to see what ingredients he has in stock. He has about 43 hours before he's due at Hermione's house; there has to be something he can make. Severus leans against the wooden worktop. Maybe a smoothing potion for her hair? Shaking his head, he dismisses the idea. Such a gift would imply there is something wrong with her hair, which there isn't. If he was a bolder man, he would have touched a curl to see if it's as soft as it looks, maybe tug on it a bit just to watch it bounce back into shape. But he isn't bold, and he would never make such a gesture. Maybe... he pushes himself off of the worktop and walks over to the dark wooden cabinet on the opposite wall, the one containing all his research notes. He really should organise those. But not now. Now, he's on a mission.

After ten minutes and several curses – why does he never learn to label anything? – he finds what he's looking for. He abandoned this project years ago, but the notes are almost complete. His heart beats a bit faster. He can do this.

35 hours later, he collapses on the stool with a sense of accomplishment. He did it. On the workbench before him stands three unassuming white pillar candles. It was no easy feat, binding the properties of Amortentia into candles. He inhales deeply. A myriad of scents wash over him; orange blossom, parchment, smoke and herbs. Wait. Orange blossoms, like he smelt on Hermione not two days previously.

Fuck. What's he going to do? He inhales deeply.

Everything will be fine.

~~~

Everything will certainly not be fine.

Him not being nervous unfortunately stops the minute he wakes up far too late on Sunday morning, the whispers of a dream involving Hermione still lingering in his body. After a shower that is too cold, he forces himself to have some tea and toast and he spends entirely too long in his boxers staring into his open wardrobe. What does one wear when going to a Christmas dinner with an acquaintance from work? He sneers at his reflection in the mirrored door. He is 51 bloody years old for Merlin's sake; he should not be this nervous over something as simple as dinner. Growing tired of himself, Severus pulls a pair of trousers and a dark button-down shirt from the wardrobe and slams the door shut.

Thirty seconds later he's opening it again, grumbling as he tosses the shirt back and pulls out another one.

His palms remain clammy – which he detests – as he wraps Hermione's present in plain brown paper and dons his coat. The paper with her slanted handwriting is clutched in his hand as he focuses and Disapparates with a pop.

Severus appears in a gravel drive in Derbyshire that is covered in a fine dusting of snow. A cold wind makes its way down the collar of his coat and up the sleeves, making him shiver. An L-shaped cottage stands before him, with dark brown window frames and smoke coming from the chimney. A wreath hangs on the front door, and twinkle lights hang on the roof trim. Hermione's house. For some reason, he is only now realising this is where he's going. To her house. He inhales deeply.

The front door opens, revealing a smiling Hermione. “I thought I heard someone arriving! Come on inside, it's freezing out.”

Hermione's house is much like her: warm and friendly. Cosy even. Soft Christmas music plays through invisible speakers, and a fire crackles merrily in the hearth. A tree with gold and red decorations – oddly arranged only on the top half – stands by the open door to the conservatory.

She is all smiles, clad in a navy dress with her curls wild around her face. “Happy Christmas, Severus.”

Feeling as though he's been caught staring, he clears his throat. “Happy Christmas, Hermione.” He thrusts the lumpy package towards her. “For you.”

Her cheeks flush – and he must admit it looks very becoming on her – as she accepts it. “You shouldn't have, but thank you. I'm, uh, sorry, but I didn't get you anything.”

Why his chest clenches slightly at her words, he's not sure. “That's all right. Think of it as a house-warming gift.”

Hermione puts the present on a side table by the sofa. “Well, thank you. It was most thoughtful.” She pushes her hair behind her ears. “I have to get back to the kitchen, but make yourself at home. Would you care for some mulled wine?”

He declines, and she gives a soft smile before disappearing through an open doorway to what he presumes is the kitchen. There is a soft yawn, and a small orange kitten comes trotting from the conservatory. Severus stays very still. Maybe if he doesn't move, it will leave him alone. The kitten sniffs his socks, then looks up at him with green eyes. Before he can stop it, the beast leaps onto his leg, pushing its sharp claws into his trousers to hang on. It then proceeds to climb up Severus' leg.

Severus hisses as the claws catch in his skin.

“Oh, Clementine!” Hermione is back, and she bends to remove the kitten from his person. “I'm sorry, Severus.” She clutches the kitten to her chest. “Little miss sassy pants here hasn't learnt any manners yet.” She boops the kitten's nose, and it stretches out its paws to catch her finger, albeit unsuccessfully. “I found her on my way home from the supermarket a couple of weeks ago; I think someone abandoned her.”

“People can be cruel.”

Hermione nods and places a kiss on the squirming kitten's head before putting it down. “They can. At first I wasn't planning on keeping her, but she fell in love with Crooks so I didn't have much of a choice.”

“Crooks?”

“My half-kneazle, Crookshanks. I've had him since my third year at Hogwarts.”

Thinking back, Severus recalls a vague memory of a younger – and much more irritating – Hermione with a large, squashy faced cat on her heels.

“And how does he feel about this newcomer?”

Hermione chuckles, eyes on the kitten – Clementine – as it's now chasing its tail. “He's not overly pleased, but he tolerates her.” Her amber eyes lift to his. “I hope she didn't ruin your trousers.”

He chuckles. “They've seen worse things, I assure you.”

A timer goes off in the kitchen, and Hermione practically recoils. “The sprouts!”

She rushes into the kitchen, and there's an explosion of curses as well as the smell of something burning. One would assume the brussels sprouts.

“Uh, Severus?” her voice floats from the kitchen, soft and unsure.

He finds her by the hob, holding a tray with small, black balls and a devastated look on her face. A window has been thrown open to get rid of some of the smoke, but it still smells horrible.

“You'll be all right with no sprouts?”

“Of course,” he lies smoothly. “I never liked them much.” They're his favourite, but she doesn't need to know that.

Hermione's eyes narrow slightly, and she puts the tray in the Belfast sink. “I can tell you're lying.”

“You cannot.”

“I can too. You have a tell.”

“I have not.” Why is he offended by this?

She chuckles. “You do, but I'm not doing to tell you what it is. It's much more fun that way.” Then she sighs. “I really wanted to make you a nice Christmas dinner.”

Oh. “It's the best Christmas Day I've had in years,” he confesses, feeling too vulnerable for his liking.

Her face turns hopeful. “It is?” When he nods, she bites her lip. “I'm glad. Would you mind helping me with the rest of the food?”

He pushes up his sleeves. “Not at all.”

Hermione's eyes flicker down, then she turns to the sink. Severus realises she was looking at the faint outline of the Dark Mark. No wonder she didn't want to look at him for any longer. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.

~~~

“Why don't you take a seat; I'll be right out,” Hermione says, taking off her cat printed apron. The preparation of the rest of the food went smoothly, though she clearly wasn't used to having another person in the kitchen and bumped into him more than once. Orange blossoms washed over him every time, and it made his pulse beat faster.

The table is set in the conservatory, candlelight gleaming off the glasses and the twinkle lights set up around the ceiling. In the corner stands a big cat tree. There, the large half-kneazle – Crookshanks – lies, watching him. Severus blinks. The cat blinks back. There's a galloping sound, and the kitten comes thundering into the room and up the cat tree. Crookshanks gives Severus a look that may as well be saying, 'Do you see what I have to put up with?' Severus chuckles low and takes a seat at the table, facing the cat tree.

He's barely sat down when Hermione strides through open French doors with several steaming dishes of food floating behind her. They arrange themselves nicely on the table, and Severus' stomach rumbles.

Hermione sits and places a bottle of red wine on the table. “Please, go ahead.”

Dinner is good. It's certainly no match for the Christmas Feast at Hogwarts – nothing is – but he enjoys it very much. He only misses the brussels sprouts a bit.

Severus sips his wine. “I must admit, I thought you'd be with the Potter-Weasley clan for Christmas. You're usually attached at the hip,” he says quickly.

A shadow passes over her face so quickly he would have missed it if he didn't know her so well. “Harry and Ginny are celebrating at home with the kids this year, and I haven't had a Christmas invite to the Burrow since Ron and I broke up.” Her voice is laced with bitterness.

Shite. This is not going well.

“That's shite.”

She chuckles and brushes a curl behind her ear. “I suppose it is. What about you? Where do you usually spend Christmas?”

“At home.”

“Alone?” The disbelief in her voice makes him wince. Gods, he's pathetic.

“Yes.”

Her smile is wistful. “I'm sorry I didn't invite you sooner.”

Severus doesn't quite know how to respond to that.

~~~

After dinner he is banished from the kitchen while Hermione does the washing up. He is nursing a glass of Ogden's on the sofa, listening to the crackling of the fire, the howling wind outside and the clamour of dishes being washed. For a moment he allows himself to pretend this is his house, his life. Not that he's here on borrowed time, and in a few hours he will go back to the coldness and emptiness of Spinner's End. There is no fire there, no Hermione. No orange kitten that has decided his socks need a good attacking.

Bending down, Severus picks up the kitten and puts it close to his face. Then he hisses. The kitten sniffs his nose and then licks it. Insufferable creature. It wriggles in his grip, and he puts it down next to him on the sofa. The kitten curls up next to his hip and promptly falls asleep. How exhausting; the life of a kitten.

“She likes you.” Hermione joins him on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand.

“There's clearly something wrong with her,” Severus snorts, shifting slightly so as to not crush the tiny ball of fluff pressed up against him.

“No,” Hermione smiles, “she knows you're a good one.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Oh, I never opened the gift you brought! How rude of me.”

Why is he suddenly nervous when she fetches the package? Why does it feel like the nature of their acquaintanceship hangs in the balance when she starts unwrapping the uninspired brown paper? The candles appear, stark white against the navy of her dress. She inhales deeply, eyes closed. Is it too late for him to make a run for it? Salazar's sweaty ballsack; Severus Snape, Master spy in the Dark Lord's rank unhinged by Hermione bloody Granger.

“Amortentia candles?” Her amber eyes are open and looking at him. “Did you make these?”

His mouth is so dry; he nods and sips his firewhisky instead of answering. Does she hate them?

Her hand is warm on his arm, and he almost chokes on his drink. “I love them,” she sounds sincere. “Thank you, Severus.”

He clears his throat. “You're welcome.”

She puts the candles on the coffee table and lights one. He gets the scent of orange blossom twofold – both from the candle and from Hermione's hair when she sits back and flings it over her shoulder. His fingers on the back of the sofa twitches.

They talk for hours, and Severus almost forgets how enamoured he is with her. Easy conversation isn't something he's used to, and she does make it easy. At some point during their discussion about foxgloves, the small kitten pressed against his hip decides that he makes a subpar pillow and nearly knocks over the lit candle on the table on its way to the floor.

There's Christmas pudding and coffee, which Severus sips slowly. Despite his better judgement he overindulged with the firewhisky and is feeling slightly inebriated. He doesn't trust himself not to do anything stupid, like blurting out how he feels about her.

“...it probably won't be your favourite crowd, but it's usually quite fun.”

Severus blinks. He's clearly missed something, being distracted by the different shades of brown and bronze in her hair. “Pardon?”

Her cheeks flush. “New Year's Eve. At Grimmauld.”

Ah. The famed Order New Year's Eve party at the Potters'. An owl has arrived on Boxing Day for the past three years with an invitation, which Severus always incinerated. He does not plan on spending any sort of time with Potter if he can help it.

“I'm sure that'll be too rambunctious for an old man like me.”

“You're not old!” she protests. “And it's an Order party, so you'll be one of the youngest.”

He snorts. “Still. I can think of many things I'd rather be doing than attend that party.”

Hurt flashes across her face, and he realises in an instant that he's said something wrong.

“I'm sorry, I didn't-”

“No, it's fine,” she says, but she won't look at him.

“Hermione...”

There's a determined set to her shoulders when their eyes meet. “Maybe you'd like to attend with me. As my date.”

Severus blinks again, trying to take her words in. “Why?”

“Because I fancy you, Severus,” she says matter-of-factly, as though she's just told him the sky is blue. “If my feelings aren't reciprocated, please tell me now so I can disappear from the face of the earth in shame.”

His heart is thudding so hard he's sure she can hear it. She fancies him. That can't be right. But she's never been a liar, and she's never been cruel. It must be the truth, ludicrous as it sounds.

Severus takes a deep breath. “They are. Reciprocated.”

Her eyes snap back to his. “Really?”

He wets his dry lips. “Yes.”

“Oh.” She relaxes back against the sofa.

Emboldened that she won't reject him, Severus reaches for the curl next to her face. It's soft against his skin. Wrapping it around his fingers, he pulls it taut and then lets it go, watching in fascination as it bounces back up.

Hermione turns her head so his fingers catch on her cheek. “It's a mess, I know.”

He finds himself smiling. “It's not a mess. It has personality.”

She looks amused. “Sometimes it crackles when I'm angry.”

“It's a glorious sight.” He lets out a chuckle, thinking back on seeing Hermione – his Hermione – yelling at a dunderhead at work, hair crackling with magic.

She looks away, then stands and extends her hand towards him. “Dance with me.”

How can he refuse, when she's looking at him with wide amber eyes and that smile? He cannot, and he does not.

Rising from the sofa, he takes her hand. It's warm and comforting against his. He wraps his other arm around her waist and scarcely dares to breathe as he pulls her body close to his. She melts against him with a sigh, resting her hand on his shoulder and her cheek against his chest. The top of her head comes up to his chin, and he gets a waft of orange blossoms from her hair with every inhale.

They start swaying gently to the music, and Severus allows his eyes to close. That he will be allowed these feelings, this happiness, is almost unfathomable. He's not naïve; he knows it takes more to make a relationship – if that's what this is becoming – than just fancying each other. But he's willing to try. She is worth it.

“Severus?”

He opens his eyes. Her face is tilted up, and his eye darts to her lips. She reaches up as he ducks, and he brushes his mouth against hers. Twice, then once more because he can't help himself. When he pulls back she lets out the most adorable whine.

He chuckles. “Impatient, are we?”

Her grip tightens on his shoulder as she nods. “I've been fancying you for ages, but I was convinced you didn't feel the same. You are a hard man to read, Severus.”

His mouth twitches in amusement. “You could have just asked.”

“So could you.”

“Ah, but where would the fun in that be?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

Chuckling, Severus leans down to kiss her again.


End file.
